


Beautiful, Inexactly

by Findswoman



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Other, Slavery, Tatooine, Vignette, breeze - Freeform, sand, sort of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A young Shmi Skywalker is called beautiful by… who or what? Originally written in May 2017 for theRomance Quotes Challengeat JCF Fanfic.“You are not beautiful, exactly.You are beautiful, inexactly.”(Marvin Bell, “To Dorothy”)“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, he would utterly be contemned.” (Song of Songs 8:7)
Relationships: The Force/Shmi Skywalker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Beautiful, Inexactly

“So, why me?” the brown-haired Tatooine slave-girl finally got up the courage to ask one evening as the gentle breeze once again rippled through her cell. Thus it had done each of the last several evenings, after she had bolted the day’s last bolt, riveted the day’s last rivet, and retired to her cell.  
  
“How do you mean, why me?” When it (he? she never could quite be sure) spoke, it spoke in not in words but in thoughts.  
  
“Well… why am I the one you visit like this?” She, however, spoke in words, not knowing any other way.  
  
“Who says you’re the only one I visit like this?” came the reply. “But you’re right, _this_ time you are.”  
  
The girl pondered for a moment. Suddenly a surge of childlike romanticism rose in her heart.  
  
“Is it because”—and here she rose from her chair and twirled her homespun skirt—”is it because you think I’m beautiful?”  
  
“Beautiful? Oh, no. Not exactly.”  
  
“Oh, I see.” She slumped back into her chair, disappointed. Perhaps it figured. Here on Tatooine the cantinas and Hutt-palaces held numerous dancers, entertainers, and nightladies in beautiful, colorful jewel-studded clothes; they were no doubt much more pleasing to the eye than a droid-fixing drudge in burlap. Especially those Twi’leks and Zeltrons—everyone knew _they_ were the best of the best. How could she possibly compare?  
  
And yet—it (he?) was here, with her, and not with some jewel-studded Twi’lek...  
  
“Now don’t misunderstand me,” it said again, quickly, as if sensing her chagrin (it was uncanny that way). “I said you’re not _exactly_ beautiful. But one could say…” There was a pause; she felt the breeze closer now, rippling the loose strands of hair that trailed down onto her neck. “One could say you are _inexactly_ beautiful. Think of how the sands drift and swirl in the wastelands.” She thought about it. “Think of how the wind carves the rock of the cliffs.” She thought about that, too. “The beauty you have is like theirs.”  
  
She ran her work-roughened hands over each other, over her prematurely lined face, over the mole on the back of her neck, and over the wispy hairs unraveling from her braid. Yes, drifting sands, rocky cliffs... that seemed about right. Tatooine didn’t have things like flowers or trees, after all—the things considered beautiful in storybooks and holofilms.  
  
“You are silent,” it said at last. “Have I offended?”  
  
“No… not at all…” What she did not say is that no being had ever called her beautiful before and that she really had no idea how to react to it. Repair-slaves, male or female, tended not to be discussed in those terms.  
  
“Good.”  
  
The breeze rustled closer still, caressing her face and neck. She closed her eyes.  
  


* * *

  
  
It came again the next evening, and the next, and the next, and the next. Again the voice (of sorts) spoke in her mind; again the breeze rustled against her skin. It was cool, gentle, refreshing—so unlike the harsh siroccos that blew daily through the desert.  
  
She wondered if it would bring up beauty again. It didn’t.  
  


* * *

  
  
There was a hubbub the next morning. Watto stormed through the shop like one of those desert siroccos, now stuffing stray parts and scraps into whichever storage lockers happened to be open, now barking to the slaves and droids to tidy the place up. The girl obeyed as best she could. She knew what it meant, of course: that some kind of Very Important Visitor was expected.  
  
“And _you!_ ” Watto squawked at her as she was suction-cleaning metal shavings from one of the workbenches, wagging a clawed, blue finger. “Whatever you do, keep a low profile, eh? I don’t want _him_ getting any ideas about any pretty female slaves of mine, no, no!”  
  
“Yes, of course,” was all she could reply, and found herself a nice, shadowy corner and a power-droid brain to rewire.  
  
Not long afterward, _he_ arrived. A Hutt, obese and mucilaginous just like all of them were, leaving a trail of grit-laced slime wherever he dragged himself. After a series of effusively obsequious bows and greetings, Watto led him on the usual tour of the shop, during which muted, heated discussion could be heard. Through it all the girl kept to her corner and pretended to tinker with the power-droid brain, though her thoughts were really with the sands drifting and swirling in the wastelands, the wind carving the rock of the cliffs…  
  
“And who might _this_ be?” The booming voice of the Hutt scattered those thoughts to the wind. She looked up to see him peering down at her through slitted yellow-brown eyes.  
  
Watto fluttered over, interposing himself. “Oh, heh heh, don’t you pay that one no heed, Great Borvo! Just one of my slaveys doin’ her thing with an old GNK processor, mmhmm!”  
  
“No heed? How do you expect me to pay _no heed_ to such a fine specimen, Toydarian?” Borvo squelched closer to her. “Listen, girl—”  
  
“Oh ho ho, but Great Borvo, Your Vastness!” Watto interrupted again. “Surely a little fix-it slave is not worth the notice of such a grandiose personality as you, eh, hmmm?  
  
The Hutt ignored Watto and continued addressing the girl. “And why should a pretty thing like you waste away as ‘little fix-it slave’? Come with me, girl!”  
  
“Wh-what?” She almost dropped the tool she was holding.  
  
“Come with me, I said! I will give you beautiful dresses and jewels to set off that lovely face! And you will _not_ be a slave! You will earn pay that would make a holofilm actress jealous! You will live in your own beautiful villa in the green hills of Nal Hutta! What do you say, pretty one? Does that not sound glorious?”  
  
Watto gnashed his crooked teeth. “She is not for sale.”  
  
“I wasn’t asking _you,_ Toydarian,” Borvo retorted. “But your apprehension is… understandable. Rest assured you shall be amply compensated.”  
  
“GAAAHH! All right, girl, you heard him,” growled Watto. “Don’t keep His Vastness waiting all day, hmm?”  
  
She thought for a few moments. Freedom, nice clothing, _pay_ —hadn’t she been longing for those things ever since the day Gardulla had first lost her to Watto in that sabacc game? And the prospect of finally leaving this this no-account Outer-Rim sandball was certainly a tempting one.  
  
And yet…  
  
At that moment a tiny, fleeting gust of air brushed her face. And in that moment her skin was like the sand drifted by the desert breeze, like the rock face being limned with beautiful inexactitude into intricate striated patterns…  
  
And she said, at last, softly but boldly: “I am not for sale.”  
  
The Hutt cursed and growled, the Toydarian snickered and gloated. They returned to their negotiations, she to her tinkering. And that evening, after she had bolted the day’s last bolt, riveted the day’s last rivet, the gentle breeze filled her cell and ruffled her hair, her face, her whole being in beatific currents. ¶


End file.
